spark & flicker
by sauropoda
Summary: The pilgrimage, as told by the green-eyed girl with grease on her sweater and sand in her hair. (Rikku/Auron)


They say the dead have no heart.

They say that when you die, there is nothing left inside of you. Your soul goes rushing out through all the cracks and crevices: the pores on the tip of your nose, the little gap between your two front teeth. Pouring out like someone left the bathwater running. A big swell at first, then a little trickle, slow and timid. And then you're left with nothing.

Nothing except the pyreflies.

I don't know if you feel them moving in. If they swarm all at once like bees from a nest, or if they show up slowly, filing in one by one. Shifting and jostling to make room for the next. If they're all in a tangle, like a briar patch you can't escape from, or if you feel each one like a little needle-prick against your skin.

But eventually, somehow, they're all there. Humming and buzzing and reaching towards the farplane. Straining. Because that's all they want: to go back home. So they scratch at you. Claw and nibble and sting.

And you're full to the brim of pyreflies that shiver against the shell that holds you in place. That seep through all your empty spaces, settling against your bones like grit on a riverbed. They wrap themselves around your ribcage and nestle in the curve of your spine. And it must feel like suffocating, they way they overtake you.

The way they fill your veins.

Your throat.

Your lungs.

Coughing and spluttering and choking.

Of course you become a fiend. Of course, because when your body hums with those pulsing, throbbing, crackling lights, when they swim through every inch of you, when they gnaw at your memories and rip your mind to shreds, leave everything blurry and tattered, there is nothing else to do.

They say the dead have no heart, and I don't blame them for letting it fade away. I never could.

* * *

And these people complain about Bikanel being too hot.

I mean, I guess it is hot. Kinda. Technically. It is a big ol' desert in the middle of the ocean, so there's plenty of sun to go around. But it's a different kind of hot than this. Bikanel is soft and silky. Dry. It slips around you like a warm towel after a shower, and when the breeze picks up, the sand pricks your skin like a thousand sharp little kisses. Heat that wraps you up and hugs you and holds you close.

They don't mention the rest of Spira when they're whining about the weather. Don't say a single thing about it. And I'm here to tell you now: it's hot. Hot. H-o-t and muggy, like someone tied you up in a thick sweater and scarf and gloves and plopped you down in a sauna.

I don't know why anyone would tie you up in a sweater and put you in a sauna. I'm not here to ask questions like that.

The point is, this place is hot. Steamy. Sticky. Awful.

"This place" meaning a nondescript little sliver of shoreline along the Moonflow. Which I guess is really pretty descript, honestly; I'm not giving it enough credit. It's all green and lush, thick canopies of trees and curling ferns. Pyreflies sparkling all around like little gemstones. It's one of the prettiest places in all of Spira. "You've got to see it," people say. "You won't believe your eyes."

That's what they tell me. I can't really vouch for that right now, because my eyes are attached to my face, and my face is firmly planted in a clod of mushy, soggy dirt.

"Cred," that's all I can think. "Cred, cred, cred." That did not go according to plan at all.

If the plan was to end up sprawled in a pile of unidentifiable muck, then sure. Ace job, Rikku. You've got it down. But honestly, I was going for something a bit more sophisticated this time around.

I keep telling myself that it isn't really selfish to focus so much on kidnapping - er, saving - Yuna. She's a summoner, just like the rest of them. And we want to help summoners. We don't discriminate.

A summoner who smells like the male bunk on a cargo barge? No problem. Saved.

A summoner who stands way too close when they talk and breathes with their mouth open? Let's do this thing.

A summoner who really, really, seriously hates wearing clothes? You bet. We'll get along just fine.

So I'm not playing favorites. Not one bit. It's not really my fault that Yunie popped up on the radar. She just happened to be the nearest summoner, and I just happened to be the nearest summoner-saver, and that's what they call fate, y'know. Divine intervention. The cosmos tapping me on the shoulder saying "hey, Rikku. Here you go. Help this poor little wonky-eyed girl out."

And okay, maybe I've been stalking her around for a little while now. But she's my cousin. My cousin, tramping off into the wilderness to get herself killed in the name of hope and peace and justice and whatever. My cousin, the great religious martyr. No way am I gonna let that one slide.

So this plan - this plan that has me flailing around in the dirt and making Shopuff-poop angels - this plan was all about grabbing her, sure, but also sitting her down to have a nice little chat. Like "hey, Yunie, remember me? Yeah, I think you're great, so please don't sacrifice yourself to save the whole world. Here, have some tea. Make yourself at home. Sorry I trapped you in a giant bubble for a little bit there." No hard feelings.

It should have been pretty simple. Pluck her out of the water, swim off into the sunset, and everyone lives happily ever after.

There were a few things I didn't really take into account here, of course. Like the fact that she has seventy billion guardians.

Approximately.

Give or take a few.

(So maybe I'm not great with numbers. Add it to the list.)

Turns out two of them can swim pretty dang well. "Pretty dang well" enough to send me spluttering for the shoreline, picking strands of algae out of my hair. I'll have some good bruises to show off. And a nice, swampy fragrance to share as well.

(You smell that? Stagnant water? Rotten vegetation? Oh, no, it's just Rikku. She's gotten into the perfume marketing business. I think it's going pretty well for her. Better than that summoner-saving gig she had going on, at least.)

But I'm nothing if not a girl who perseveres. A perseverer. A perseverette. I could perse those veres all day long. Just hand 'em over.

And that's the thought that perks me right up, here on this little pile of sludge and mush.

I'm dirty.

I'm sore.

I'm sweaty.

I smell like pond scum.

And, when I finally lift my face out of the dirt, I can see those seventy billion guardians making their way down the path. Straight towards me.

So I make up my mind right then and there: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.


End file.
